


Calleth you cometh I

by Reichenbachstag



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, from EP 8 on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25356232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reichenbachstag/pseuds/Reichenbachstag
Summary: Rescued from the jaws of death Francis is sure that he could not have gone on without James but back in London he might just have to do that.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Thomas Blanky & Captain Francis Crozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Calleth you cometh I

May 2nd , 1848  
Salvation comes in the form of James Clark Ross and with him the runaways looking more like corpses than live men.  
Except for Cornelius Hickey.  
Despite being thinner than Francis has ever seen him his smile is as wide as ever, his eyes disgustingly full of life.  
With them the men also have fresh food, two doctors and enough patience to take care of the ill until they can be brought aboard the rescue ship.  
Francis holds his ice master’s hand as they sew off the infection and burn out the wound.  
He takes care of washing Lieutenant Jopson when he too becomes too weak to stand and not a day goes by where he doesn’t confer and feed his rather impatient second in command.  
He himself sees to it that the belongings they still have of the deceased are labelled correctly and stored away until their return to England.

Damnation comes in the form of James Clark Ross and his men.  
To whom Francis must explain what Mister Hickey has done, from whom he must learn that Mister Goodsir is gone.  
Shot as he was carving up the body of Mister Gibson in a way that made his intentions unmistakeable.  
Francis takes no pleasure in imagining the lifeless body swinging before his very eyes so he begs Ross to take Hickey with them so he can be sentenced back home. Instead he is offered Ross’ personal pistol with the suggestion to grant the man a fast death.

He feels sick to his stomach when he raises the bottle of sweetened lemon juice to James’ lips – the glass has an odd ochre colour not unlike the red that had spread in Hickeys eyes as his neck would not break and he struggled for breath that would not come.  
A gentle hand pushing his wrist down snaps him out of his haze.  
“Do you wish to drown me in the very thing that should be ridding me of scurvy?”  
“When I think of the tales you will tell once we are back in London, I find myself considering it, yes.”  
James struggles to sit up, shoulders shaking from having to bear his weight.  
“It is not Hickey’s hanging that is bothering you is it?”  
“Captain Ross has told me that Lady Franklin is personally responsible for the rescue ship. She’s been pressuring the admiralty since last winter as it seems.”  
“You are not at fault Francis; you’ve been the best kind of first to keep us all alive.”

At last he let’s some of Ross’ men lead him to the abandoned campsite not half a mile away where Mister Goodsir rots, sporadically buried.  
And he takes it upon himself to dress the man in fresh linens, speak the holy mass and dig proper six feet down.  
The day one of Ross’ marines claims to have seen a bear Francis drags Thomas up the hill closest to their campsite and they shout out in broken words their regret and their intentions of leaving until they are both out of breath; praying, hoping that Lady Silence and her spirit may accept their weak apologies.

May 13th, 1848  
In the night before they embark Francis goes back to Mister Goodsir one last time but as soon as he’s left the circle of light the tents give off Lady Silence blocks his path.  
“How could you? One of your very own? And now you choose to leave?”, her tone is cold and she follows up with something Francis does not understand but he lets her scream at him until she disappears into the dark again; her mouth sour with disgust and her eyes filled with grief.

May 14th, 1848  
The day they start walking toward the ship Francis volunteers to pull the sled carrying the ill.  
Jopson is not yet well enough to help but he strides by Francis and Bridgens keeping them a rather pleasant company. More pleasant than Thomas breathy sighs whenever his leg slams into the side of the sled or James’ bit back sounds that could be sobs if they were any louder.  
They finally reach the ship after what seems like two never-ending weeks; Francis is given his personal quarters, but he spends his days and nights in the sickbay and its small side room that holds Captain Fitzjames and Mister Blanky.  
“You love your men more than Sir John did.”, is all Ross has to say after he walks in on Francis passed out on the wooden floor besides Lieutenant Jopson’s bed.  
Jopson is the first reason he has to walk on deck again as he makes a rather speedy recovery and after a month on the open water Francis finds himself busy teaching his best friend to walk again.

June 28th , 1848  
“D’you think he’ll miss me now that I’ve conquered having only one knee? Y’know with my leg and his hair growing all over the place we’d make a fine pair of pirates if you don’t keep an eye on us, we might be hanged once we reach England.”  
“I’m sure James will miss having company but it’s not like you’re forbidden to visit and talk to him.”  
“He doesn’t chatter much these days. Not with me at least, ‘soon as you’re gone, he shuts his mouth.”

James’ recovery worries him the most as the man catches - what the ships doctor presumes is – Tuberculosis while still battling the open wounds in his side and muscles.  
Francis is advised to stay away but he does not.  
He holds James’ hand watching him struggle for breath in the night, wonders what it would be like to take the disease from his body and bear it himself.  
It is a horrendous thought of the flesh inside him barely mending and his lungs filling up with fluid.  
But he knows James would be by his side and see him through it and he also knows that only James could make him do that.  
That knowledge scares him.  
Francis wonders if it has all been for naught – keeping James alive on King William Land, keeping himself alive through it all.  
Truly he knows that he does not want to live to tell the tale – he wants to stand by James’ side while he does in his stead.  
That knowledge also scares him

July 20th , 1848  
It takes nearly another month for James’ fever to break; he is a shadow of the man that embarked on this journey in ’45 but he is alive and that is all that matters.  
The doctor confirms that it could not have been Tuberculosis or James would not have lived.  
Francis shudders at the notion of it ‘merely being pneumonia’ anything threatening his seconds life could not be a mere thing.  
He moves James into his quarters, and he does not leave his side for three days in a row. The lead, scurvy and pneumonia have left his body half a corpse but to Francis he still looks half god as well.  
“How are you not repulsed by me yet?”  
“I don’t know James. I suppose I owe you after not being repulsed by me battling my illness and leaving the men in your care.”  
“You do not owe me Francis. You never could owe me anything.”  
His chest tightens at that the same way it had when James had confessed his parentage to him – he feels something heavy, something he has to carry.  
“Francis? Will you stay another night? But please do not spend it in the armchair- “  
That is where he has to cut James off.  
“What are you saying, James?”

James does not ask him again. Francis stays in the armchair and when he wakes James is on the floor beside him.  
“You madman.”, he whispers before lifting him back into bed.

Teaching Thomas to walk again had been a difficult but actually pleasant activity; teaching James to walk, dress and eat again is the hardest thing Francis has ever done.  
James is not impatient or ungrateful, no in fact he is thankful for every step he takes and yet it feels like there is something tearing apart inside of Francis.  
He likes seeing James back in uniform at the captain’s dinner, but he does not like how James feels unreachable again.

January 1st , 1849  
Word has reached the mainland a few months back, he shall step on English soil in round and about a month and most importantly he has not lost another man, yet Francis feels miserable.  
It had taken James days to go back to the insufferable, boasting annoyance he had been at the very start. Days to erase the way he had let Francis see him.  
Now Francis is standing on deck starring up at the blurry mass that might have been stars. The door opening behind him makes him jump.  
“I did not mean to startle you.”, it is James and he stinks of the opium pipe he’s undoubtedly just shared with Captain Ross.  
Francis does not blame him it is New Year’s Day after all, and he can barely stand himself.  
James steps closer not close enough to touch and Francis wishes he would.  
Then James must read his thoughts then because he reaches out and gently swipes his index finger over Francis palm and the world stops spinning for a second.  
And another second passes, then another and they slowly turn into and eternity that is only broken by the bile rising in Francis throat.  
James silently stands by looking more hurt than pitiful once Francis can stop clutching the ropes and rise back up to wipe his mouth.

January 25th, 1849  
They disembark under thundering applause that turns into white noise in Francis ears when he sees Sophia and Lady Franklin dressed in black head to toe in the first row.  
His feet will not obey him as he should follow Captain Ross and his Lieutenants down the gangway instead flinging himself over the railing seems far more plausible – until James taps his shoulder gently.  
“Will you help me down? I suppose my cane won’t do much good on such uneven ground.”  
Remaining silent Francis offers James his arm only raising his eyes from the boards ahead of them when he hears James’ low chuckle.  
He turns his head and sees Thomas fending off Jopson’s helping hands only to clutch onto the railing, seemingly doing his best to keep the unsavoury words contained.

Once the Admiralty grants him and the Franklins some time by themselves, he slips out of his seat and to his knees in front of Lady Franklin.  
“There is nothing you could have done Francis. He was the one who ordered to hunt the bear and he was among Erebus’ men when it got him. I am certainly glad that you have managed to bring as many men home as you did.”  
Her hands are cold when she brushes his cheek and gestures for him to stand.

James makes himself rare – Francis barely catches a glimpse of him outside the rooms crowded with naval officers or the press.  
The last time he really sees him is when her majesty grants them all entrance to Buckingham Palace.  
James looks and behaves as though he had not gone north at all; beautiful, vain and dangerously loudmouthed.  
It is as if they star opposite one another in a play and all of London is their stage: James’ part is that of the war hero and now arctic survivor. It feels as if his lines say that he does not get on with the pathetic Irish drunk but cannot bring himself to truly commit to them, there is no sneering at Captain Crozier and his odd habits but there is also not more than a hint of companionship.

Back in his lodgings he thinks of Sophia’s gentle mockery of how he made use of his drawers and still he cannot bring himself to use more than three.  
Two for his belongings, a third one for his liquor.  
In the evening he thinks of when all hope was lost, and he feared James would make the same request as Mister Morfin.  
Then he had held onto the memory of James’ last good day – their walk to the cairn. And the picture of James smiling, crying, baring his soul had never dropped before his inner eye.  
It had been the only thing to keep him sane, really.  
Now it felt a lifetime ago.

March 30th, 1849  
“Fame’s the thirst of youth, eh? You ought to cut the man some slack.”, Thomas’ voice is slightly unsteady, a sign that he probably should put his glass down.  
“Don’t act like you ‘n Byron are friends all the sudden! And… months Tom – been cutting him slack for months!”, his own speech is even more slurred.  
“Ay but Misses Blanky loves him so. Talks about his poems same way you used to speak of James.”  
Francis wants to shoot him an angry look but truthfully, he is too disappointed – too deep into grieving a man who’s not dead.  
“Had to hear from Ross that the bastard’s setting sail again.”, and he wonders if a part of him has chosen that insult because he is the only one that knows.  
“Francis, please. He was your friend.”, Thomas does not sound mocking like he was moments ago.  
“It’d be better for’im to die than keep chasing something that he cannot have anyway.”  
“Francis!”

It must be very late or perhaps very early, Francis cannot tell and frankly he does not care anymore.  
The sound of boots in the hall is too familiar, the knock unbearable.  
It can’t be.  
It is him.  
Speaking softly through the door, waiting to be let in.  
Francis curses himself for unlatching the door to let James Fitzjames step inside.  
James looks at him in something that might have been awe but is soon overcome with furrowed brows and a scowling mouth.  
“Are you unwell? I did not mean to impose-“  
“Not a word from you in months and now you come to mock my state?”, he wants to say that it is the state James has left him in, but he cannot.  
Francis swallows hard when he realises that this is the first time, he’s seen James out of uniform or naval issued dress – that this is the first time James has seen him like this as well.  
“I did not mean to mock you Francis. I came because I wanted to tell you in person that I will be for Hong Kong next month.”, he halts as if unsure of what he came to say – clutching his cane.  
“I will not return, Francis.”  
It takes Francis a few moments to collect himself – how ridiculous he must look; mouth gaping, liquor on his breath and his face all flushed as if James had simply provoked him into a barfight.  
“Hong Kong? James do you hear yourself?”  
For just a moment his eyes are met with ones filled with disbelief.  
“Hong Kong Francis. You shall never have to see me again.”, with that James turns around, taking two steps out the door then he stops.  
“I cannot humiliate myself and let another come as close as you have Francis. Seek for an early death all you want but don’t you dare to deny me to do the same.”  
The words feel heavy in the air even when James has long left Francis’ rooms. Francis turns them back and forth in his mind – twists them around trying to find sense in them.  
Before he can stop it, images pour into his hazed mind drowning everything around him.

How would James go about it? He cannot imagine James Fitzjames drowning himself in too much Opium smoke until his lungs collapse, that man needs to go with style.  
Vanish – never to be seen again. And when a body turns up it would be just another unknown Englishman dead under Sir Bonhams banner.  
His legs protest when he forces them to carry him out the door at a seemingly inhumanly slow pace.  
If the arctic tundra was the end of James Fitzjames’ vanity this is the end of Francis Crozier’s reason.  
Francis does not know what comes over him, but James is not yet gone. 

James is alive and he has pleaded for Francis to come to him before he is.

Who is he to let everything James has given him die in a puddle of cheap whiskey?  
Exactly that whiskey is what he retches out into a miserable spot on the pavement the lighting to dark to tell whether blood comes up with it or not. The street light dances in his already narrow vision as if to mock him.

“Francis?”

It is him.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And Francis cannot help but stare at the blurry figure hovering above him. His voice won’t obey him, and he chokes on the words the first time but finally Francis manages to croak them out.  
“Don’t go!”  
James remains silent but his lip quivers as if he’s trying to hold back a sob.  
“I cannot go back-“, he wants to say more but his voice fails him.  
There’s a thud and Francis registers that James has dropped to his knees, still towering over him.  
“I have to Francis. I cannot be what they ask of me. Not when I know who I can be with you.”  
His mouth is quivering, his shoulders shaking – he looks like a frightened child. Francis must be losing his senses fully then because he asks James a barely audible question that makes his head snap up.  
“Francis! Francis look at me! What did you ask? What did you ask me just now?”, his voice is full of panic and Francis does not know how he deserves to sit so close to this man who even now is granting him a way out.  
“I asked if you would have me if you were to stay.”

James embraces him then, clinging to Francis back, his reply hushed into the fabric of the latter’s waistcoat.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Ark song of the same name.  
> Samuel George Bonham was the third govenor of Hong Kong - I thoght it a fitting escape for James as the real Fitzjames fought in the first opium war.  
> Sir James Clark Ross' search party did not reach the arctic until 1849 but a lad can dream eh?  
> I apologise for the timeline - I know it's all over the place.


End file.
